Stochastic
by AssaultSloth
Summary: A collection of deleted scenes, one-shots, and other crap that didn't make it into my other writing for some reason or another.  Laughs abound.
1. Purple, Kasumi, Zaeed

**Purple - Zaeed Massani and Kasumi Goto**

**

* * *

**

Zaeed scrutinized the bottle at arm's length. "Purple?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Oh, quit your whining," Kasumi quipped, rummaging around her drawers for the bottle opener. "One whiff of that'd knock a volus out. Even through the suit."

Zaeed fixed her with a skeptical eye. "Not a chance. You ever see a volus drink?"

"…no," Kasumi admitted, shrugging.

"Well they're pressurized, right? Come in these big iron canisters that attach to the suit ports. Heavy stuff. Few years back I was in a little dive on Cenderes. Dirty, but any kinda drink you could ask for and nobody asked questions."

"Sounds like my kind of place."

"You and me both, girlie. Anyway, aliens like it too. I was counting out my money, right, when I hear this volus arguing with a quarian over who had it worse." He flipped his wrist limply as he mocked them in a sing-songy voice, "'oh, I can't sniff flowers', 'oh, I can't feel my child's skin', crap like that, you know? Anyway, these two jackoffs just get drunker and drunker as the night goes by. Little past midnight when the volus finally dares the quarian to down a volus drink, something called an 'Irune Firestarter'. Quarian goes for it." He stared dourly at the thief.

"Was it poisonous or something?"

"Poisonous! It blew his bloody head off! You crack one of these at standard pressure and its like a bomb, girlie. Blew the bar to smithereens. Pretty sure me an' the volus were the only two to walk out of there."

Kasumi nodded, thinking. "Huh. I never knew that."

Zaeed grinned widely. "Call the volus what you like, but light drinkers they ain't."

Kasumi rolled her eyes. "Unlike _some_ people," she said, pointing at the drink on the table.

"It's purple!"

* * *

**A/N: **So, this story will be a spot to dump assorted scenes I've cut from _Interstitium_ and any other random ME-related writing. I give no guarantee of any quality here, it's just gonna be a scrapbook of lower-quality stuff. I've given it a little editing, but no beta, etc.

Just thought someone might get a laugh out of these. This one was written for the ME challenge community on LJ. Prompt was 'Zaeed recalls a story of a quarian, a volus, and one too many drinks'.


	2. Bullseye!, Jacob, Kasumi, Zaeed

**Bullseye - Jacob Taylor, Zaeed Massani, and Kasumi Goto**

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* * *

**

"You're kidding, right?"

"Not a bit. Hand to God, it's true."

Jacob set down the drink he'd been nursing and gave it a hard stare as if _it _was the one trying to convince him to risk his life. It was silent on the matter, and Zaeed's face was as unreadable as ever.

"How drunk do I got to get you to make you try it? Any more of those an' you'll be asleep, you lightweight," Zaeed rumbled.

"'mnot a lightweight," Jacob managed. Why did he let Zaeed convince him to raid Kasumi's booze again? Something about… something. Still, why would Zaeed lie to him? Zaeed was honest, right? "Hell with it," he said finally, tossing back the rest of his drink and slamming the can down on the table. "I'll do it."

Zaeed grinned. "'At's the spirit, kid."

Jacob was swaying on his feet, the last unopened can of beer in his hands, as the two of them descended to the lower decks.

Kasumi met them at the bottom. Under her hood her eyes widened in surprise as Jacob came lurching out the elevator. "Oh! Guys!" she said. Her eyes narrowed when they met Zaeed's. "What are you doing?"

"'Sumi!" Jacob brayed, latching onto her. "D'jou know you stroke a krogan's head an' they fall asleep. Right asleep! Like a dog!" He snickered deliriously, shaking the beer in his hands.

"Umm… Jacob?" Kasumi started.

"Taylor here's gonna show us, Princess!" Zaeed interrupted. "Come watch the fun! " The merc didn't give her any chance to disagree, ushering Jacob towards Grunt's quarters. The three of them found the krogan sleeping soundly at the base of his tank, his massive head resting on one armored knee. His arched back was almost as tall sitting as Jacob was standing, but all the same Jacob staggered up to him with no fear.

If he'd been less drunk he might have noticed how far back Kasumi and Zaeed were standing, but as it was he just gave the can one last shake, opened it up, and sprayed it liberally right on the sleeping krogan's face.

"Bullseye," he said, ignoring the furious blue of Grunt's eyes. "Now watch this." He set a hand on Grunt's plated forehead and rubbed, tossing a victorious grin back Kasumi's way.

Kasumi just shook her head. "Oh Jacob."

"You bloody. Goddamn. Retard," Zaeed said, chuckling.

Jacob turned back to see a very angry, very awake Grunt, still dripping with beer.

_"Run."_

_

* * *

_

_**A/N: **_This one was also written for ME_challenge on LJ. (Prompts were 'Drinks with Jacob', 'Bullseye!', 'Run', and 'You Idiot')_  
_


	3. Thaaaaaaane!

**Thaaaaaaane!**

* * *

Thaaaaane! The drell they call Thaaaaaane!

Oh he, prayed for the bad guys he, prayed for their souls,  
Right after he killed them and shot them fulla holes  
Our love for him now, ain't hard to explain  
He's the malien L-I, the drell we call Thaaaaane!

Now Thane saw Nassana being bitchy,  
He saw the salarians die,  
And his throat and his lungs were sure itchy,  
Thought he'd kill'er, before he went bye.

So he said, "You can't do this to these frog-men,"  
You can't gun them all right down with all your mechs!"  
So he snuck through the vents  
In a turn of events  
That left her giant office a mess

Oh his lips are enormous his skin is a drug,  
His coat's full of holes all his, clothes are real' snug  
He's also biotic, not sure I can explain  
But he's the drell party member, the one we call Thaaaaane!

Now here is what separates Krios,  
From NPC's like Jacob or Jack  
All the lines said by Thane just... stick in your brain  
I'm telling you the guy's voice, is crack.

Thane saw the reaper fetus hanging  
He saw all the trouble ahead  
But for the drell they call Thane it was, all quite mundane  
Said 'disquieting' then calmly shot it dead

Oh he's stuffy and quiet and not good with friends  
Or his wife or his son yeah the list never ends  
Still our love for him now, ain't hard to explain  
He's Garrus plus warp, he's the drell they caaaaalll THAAAAAANE!

**

* * *

A/N: **Written on a whim in about 15 minutes. Sung, obviously, to the tune of "The Hero of Canton" from what may be the best episode of what may be the best show ever made. I'm working on a recording of it.


	4. Sneevle Flu, Chakwas, Zaeed, Mordin

**Sneevle Flu - Helen Chakwas, Zaeed Massani, and Mordin Solus**

* * *

Dr. Helen Chakwas liked to think she was still the expert on human medicine on the _Normandy_. Mordin had always conceded her this victory, but the salarian's encyclopedic knowledge on everything from elcor parasites to medieval turian music sometimes made her wonder if he wasn't just humoring her.

So it was with a vague feeling of dread that she stood by and watched Zaeed get his second opinion.

Mordin 'hmmmm'ed and 'hrrmmm'ed as he examined the grizzled mercenary, who sat on the examining table like a child with a stomachache.

"Mouth open," Mordin commanded, and Zaeed obeyed (he even had a scar on his _tongue_ for goodness' sake). The salarian peered inside, clucking softly to himself for a half second before turning away to his workbench. "Examination complete," he said, not looking at them.

"Give it to me straight, Doc," Zaeed said. "I caught the goddamn drell cancer, didn't I? That bastard Krios. I swear to God, if he weren't dying already I'd _kill _him."

Chakwas had had enough - this was just getting silly. "For the final time, you're _fine, _Mr. Massani. You're just getting _old. _Running out of breath is not all that uncommon for older men."

Zaeed shot her a grimace that anyone else might have found intimidating. "I was old twenty years ago and I was _fine_. Now I'm _sick_."

Chakwas might have pitied him before, but not anymore. Ever since Thane's disease had worsened, the whole crew had been on edge, but to have Zaeed, of all people, mucking up her med bay with his paranoia was utterly ridiculous.

"Give it a rest, you big baby! For someone with so many war stories you're curiously afraid of a little cough!" She turned to Mordin. "Would you please tell him he's fine?"

"Will not lie to patient," Mordin said, face dead serious as he turned to reveal the enormous needle he had prepared. "Agree with Mr. Massani. Direly ill."

Chakwas' mouth dropped.

"You can't possibly-"

"Mr. Massani obviously suffering from Batarian Sneevle Flu," Mordin interrupted. " Very deadly disease. Very good he came to me." The salarian nodded, unsmiling.

"Jesus Christ. Is there a cure?" Zaeed whined, already holding out a tattooed arm for Mordin to inject.

"Yes. Deadly but easy to cure. Will use electro-generator therapy. Rare salarian technology."

Chakwas confusion melted away as Mordin revealed his 'rare salarian technology' to be little more than a pair of electrodes, pulled out of an ordinary electrophoretic runner. Zaeed, however, held out his arms, face grim as Mordin attached an electrode to each hand.

"May be painful," Mordin warned, turning back to the machine and flipping it on. Zaeed gave a quick jump. "Stage one therapy."

Zaeed grimaced. "Is that it?"

"No, no. Now must reverse polarity on neutron flow." He dialed a random knob. "Overloading mainframe!" Another random button – the salarian was clearly enjoying himself now, and making no efforts to hide his sing-songy tone. "Hacking into root directory!"

Mordin flicked the switch off, back to business in a flash. "Treatment complete."

Zaeed blinked, looking a little shocked by the suddenness of Mordin's proclamation, as if he couldn't tell if he was allowed to be relieved yet. "…that's it?"

Mordin nodded. "Yes. Completely cured. Feel better, I assume?"

Zaeed let out a sigh of relief and slumped down on the bed. "Thanks mate. I feel _worlds _better. Feel like a goddamn kid again."

Chakwas and Mordin couldn't keep the smiles off their faces as Zaeed slid off the table, grabbed his shirt and, with a last victorious grin at Chakwas, marched from the lab.

"…reversing the polarity on the neutron flow?" Chakwas asked as soon as the door had slid shut. She grinned at Mordin.

"Had to improvise. Old men, sometimes stubborn."

Chakwas laughed.

* * *

**A/N: **Written in about 15 minutes with no editing to fill three prompts on the me_challenge community. Prompts were "there's a ghost in my lungs and it's killing me", "now this is getting silly", and "I reversed the polarity of the neutron flow."

For those who care, next chapter of Interstitium is on the way. Just giving me some trouble.


	5. Camera, Zaeed, Gabby

**Camera - Zaeed Massani and Gabriella Daniels**

* * *

Gabby found her bench an absolute mess. Tools were strewn about, uncalibrated and out of their meticulous places. Boxes had been opened and rummaged through and left with their contents scattered.

And there was a grizzled old mercenary cussing over the bench clamp.

"Zaeed? Can I help you?"

Zaeed just grunted in response, even when she came up beside him. He had an old, worn-out camera stuck in the clamp and was working vigorously inside its battery compartment with a screwdriver. His tongue stuck out and his face screwed up in concentration as he fiddled, occasionally switching tools with a snarl but no apparent rhyme or reason.

"Zaeed?" Gabby repeated.

"Camera's broke," he said, tossing aside his screwdriver and reaching for an awl. "Fixing it."

Gabby's eyebrows creaked up on her head. The camera was rusted and dented. It even had what looked to be a bullethole in one side. She liked to think she was pretty handy with electronics, but even she would have thrown this one away a long time ago. "I don't think it's worth fixing," she said.

Zaeed grunted, ignoring her.

"QUARIAN!" he bellowed, so loud and sudden that Gabby took a step back. "NEED SOME GODDAMN GEAR FIXED!"

Tali – deep in the engine – yelled something (no doubt obscene) back in quarian. Zaeed just grimaced.

"I've had this camera for a bloody long time," he grunted, peering into the scarred chamber with his good eye.

Gabby rolled her eyes. "Give me a break, you can borrow mine…" she offered, then frowned and added "what do you need it for?"

Zaeed looked at her for the first time, an incredulous look on his scarred face. His eyes scanned her, full of distrust. "Scar Wednesday on my website," he said eventually, turning back to the camera. "This week's scar I got from a goddamn _seed_ on some goddamn mushroom planet. You believe that?"

"You take pictures of your scars and post them on the extranet?"

"Every Wednesday," Zaeed confirmed, switching back to the screwdriver.

"And where _is_ this seed scar?"

Zaeed gave a lecherous grin.

Gabby's eyes widened. "I take it back. You can't borrow mine."

* * *

**A/N: **I have no idea why Zaeed seems to show up in every one of these. He's just hilarious. Anyway, this one comes from yet another response to the ME challenge community on LJ. It's not directly based on a prompt (though I think I fudged a little to make it fit one) but was rather something of a sequel to another person's post, in which Zaeed revealed he operated a fansite for his many fans on the extranet. The aforementioned community seems to have found a surge of love for Zaeed of late - it seems like a week doesn't go by where somebody doesn't write something funny about him. I wish I could claim credit for the Zaeed Renaissance, but I really can't. Best I can say is the ever Hipster-ish "I was writing Zaeed humor before it was cool."

Yay Zaeed humor!

I have another goofy scene (again featuring Zaeed) that I'll post sometime. And for those who might be fans of Interstitium, hold onto your hats. I am still working on chapter 20. It turns out it's just goddamn immense and complicated and I bit off a lot more than I can chew. You will see when you get it - it's way more elaborate than anything else I've written. But it's coming, it's coming.


	6. Toilet, Gardner

**Toilet - Rupert Gardner**

* * *

The four of them stared at their feet, where a steady lake of water was widening to fill the hall outside the men's bathroom. It lapped at their boots, growing and growing in silence as they watched it.

Vega was soaked up to the waist. "So… uhh…"

"Yeah," Garrus agreed. Vega trailed off into silence.

Cortez was still holding his hand in his face. "Four of us," he said in disbelief, gesturing helplessly between them. "Two of us professional engineers, a gunnery officer, and… Vega. And we can't fix a flooding toilet."

"Least I tried," Vega protested.

The others just looked at him. Vega shrugged in defense.

Cortez sighed. "And how do we deserve this ship again?"

"Don't look at me," Ken said, shaking his head. "I'm power and shields. Never learned plumbing. We used to have a guy for that."

"Sergeant Gardner," Garrus supplied, taking a step backwards to avoid the ever-expanding pool of water.

"Yeah. Gardner. What ever happened to him? Did he, like, retire or something? Or maybe he just disappeared from being taken for granted so hard."

"You did just call him 'a guy'."

–

Rupert Gardner was fixing one of the sinks in the common area (one of the refugee kids had washed a toy down the drain again) when his omni-tool blatted from his belt. Scowling, he wiped his greasy hands onto his pants and accepted the call.

"Hey, is this Gardner?"

"Yep. What can I do you for?"

"Hey Gardner. This is Ken. From the _Normandy_, remember? I was the one who caused the trash compacter fire?"

Gardner's face fell at the memory. _That _had been an interesting day. "I remember," he said.

"Cool, cool. Listen, Buddy. We need some help."

Gardner stood up suddenly, stomach twisting into knots. Oh boy. The _Normandy _was in trouble again. He gritted his teeth and prepared himself for the bad news.

"How do you fix a toilet?"

"A toilet?" Gardner asked, surprised.

"Yeah, do you need, like, scuba gear or something?"

Gardner couldn't help but smile with relief. He looked around to see if anyone was watching him. The coast was clear. "Christ, boy. Scared the daylights outta me."

"Related question. Does the _Normandy_ carry enough water to drown us all?"

Gardner laughed. "Toilet repair isn't hard. I'll walk you through it. First things first, go wash your hands."

–

Fifteen minutes later, the flooding finally stopped, to a round of cheers from the crowd of onlookers that had gathered. Even over the phone, Gardner recognized Garrus' voice, and EDI's. So they were still on the _Normandy. _That was good.

"Take care, kids," Gardner said, chuckling. "Tell the Commander I said hi."

He turned off his communicator, smiling to himself.

"Who was that? Commander who?"

Gardner almost jumped at the mechanical voice behind him. He turned to see one of the centurian troopers, armored head-to-heel in gleaming white armor, a vicious pistol in his hands. "Commander Sh-" he paused. Something was wrong.

Everyone at Sanctuary had been nothing but polite to him since he'd started here. Cerberus knew how to treat their own. But something in the trooper's tone silenced him. Filled him with a distrust he hadn't felt in years.

"Commander… Shadow," he finished lamely. "An… an old childhood nickname. Friend of mine."

The trooper looked at him for a long moment, helmeted face betraying nothing. Then he clomped off without a word.

Gardner looked after him, feeling uneasy.

* * *

**A/N: **Another short throwaway scene, written in about 10 minutes with no editing. Set in ME3. The prompt was "What the hell happened to Gardner?"

For those interested, Interstitium is coming. Next chapter in the next week, I would guess.


	7. Chapter 7, Outlier, Wrex

**Outliers – Urdnot Wrex**

* * *

–

Wrex remembered the day they'd heard the news – he'd been a splitplate, still just a child on Tuchanka, not yet old enough to join the last few great warlords in the rebellions. Back before the clans had started to dwindle, back when Holok and Dragka clans still ruled, back when every splitplate was raised on tales of Kredak the Great Lowlander, who could kill a thousand turians in an afternoon. They'd been losing the war, he remembered. By that point Kredak and his clans had perfected alien-killing into an art, and yet planet after planet had slipped through their grip. The turians had seemed to be endless, had no sooner lost an army that another was there to face it. They were a great and noble enemy, and Wrex had dreamed of the day he would get to test himself against them.

That was, of course, until they'd found out _why _they'd been losing. Until they'd found out about the genophage. Until they'd found out that the turians had already dealt a cowardly death blow that would take a thousand years to fall.

That was one thousand, four-hundred and seventy-six years ago, give or take, and the krogan were still alive. The deathblow had been averted. The damage had been undone.

Things were back to normal.

Urdnot Wrex scowled at that thought as he walked the path down into the hollow of the great temple of Corsutk'tk, once the heart of the ancient city, now the heart of the entire krogan species. Everyone said things were back the way they were, but hell if Wrex could remember them _ever _being like this.

It was early – the morning chill still hung heavy about the air – but he could already hear the murmur of tens of thousands of krogan congregated in the temple's inner courtyards. More krogan than he'd ever seen at once – Urdnot and Kuddru, Hailot and Forsan, Raik and Ravanor and a hundred other clans, krogan from the east, heavy Shogos from the far north, sunburnt Qossas from the great deserts beyond the southern wall – all had come to join the great mass in Cortusk'tk. Many had nowhere else to go – the Statkas, once great wardens of the burial grounds at Tosaqq-asot – had lost their homeland to the falling corpse of a reaper destroyer, which had shattered the great relics beneath its bulk and driven mad any krogan who attempted to salvage amongst its remains. Thousands upon thousands more were clanless, offworld mercenaries and thugs returning home to reclaim their place after centuries spent selling their muscle offworld. Others yet were pilgrims, krogan flocking to see the ancient city, to see the remains of the Shroud, to see the great Urdnot Bakara. The crowds had grown so immense that it was no longer possible to divide clan from clan, and yet they'd continued to pour in until they were packed hump-to-hump in the temple's lower levels.

For the thousandth time, Wrex wished they'd chosen a different spot for their grand new capital. There was a reason the great temple ruins had been abandoned, and it wasn't just the mother of all thresher maws that made the region her home. It was visible, it was hard to defend, and Kalros had driven what little prey Tuchanka had to offer far, far away from her territory. That had left her with only krogan to eat and, indeed, she'd already cost them dozens of warriors since they'd set up in her temple.

But nobody seemed to care. Bakara said the temple was a symbol of their new age of prosperity, worth any danger. It was here that they'd defeated the genophage, she'd said, it was here that they'd saved their future, and it was here that they would make their new stand.

Wrex snorted and kept walking.

–

By the time Wrex had reached the temple's edge and started the long trek through the krogan camps, Aralakh was rising in the eastern sky and the day had begun. The crowds were almost impenetrably thick – even with the way krogan would see him and fall over themselves making way for his passage – and even Urdnot Wrex, who had until so recently been Warlord of _all _krogan, was forced to jostle and squeeze his way through the throngs. His mood continued to sour with each step, and by the time he'd made it to the great bonfire Gottt clan had set up at the base of a disabled tomkah, he was quite ready to headbutt someone to unconsciousness.

Still, the mood around him was ecstatic. Krogan laughed and cheered and fought and mated in an orgy of celebration Wrex had never seen in his species before. The air was full of smells – the musk of breeding scents and the stink of dungpits and the thick cloud of blood and dust kicked up by ten thousand krogan boots. Three enormous fighting pits had been excavated into the temple floor (a fact which had nearly given Bakara a heart attack when she'd found out), and varren or krogan fought one another to roars of applause. On a terraced platform above the festivities, krogan from a dozen clans were passing out rations from the great shipping containers full of offworld fruits and meats the aliens had been sending them in exchange for their help in the cleanup operations. Everywhere krogan were gorging themselves, roaring and laughing as they enjoyed the fruits of alien gratitude for the first time in more than a millennium.

But by far the loudest tumult came from the great crowd of krogan waiting for an audience with Bakara. The new mother of the krogan people had become a messiah practically overnight, and pilgrims had kept her constantly busy for months. She was barely four centuries old – practically a splitplate – with no great war victories to her name, and yet krogan streamed in from across the planet just to see her, just to touch her feet, just to listen to her speak. Thousands had renounced their clans and pledged their loyalties directly to her, and the sycophants that pooled at the foot of the ziggurat she'd taken for her home grew in number every day.

As annoyed as he was, Wrex couldn't help but take it for a good sign that his fellow krogan were revering a creator for once. Someone with the power to bring life, not just someone skilled at taking it away. Still, it was at least a little unsettling that no one had become a bigger Bakara fan than Uta, leader of the Urdnot female clan. The two hens had become inseparable since their return to Tuchanka, and spent days unending atop Bakara's ziggurat, making their plans for the future.

Wrex shuddered at the thought. His new mate and his old mate, together.

That would not end well for him.

It took half the morning to pierce through the krogan crowds to the other side, and by the time he'd finally descended into the city itself to the cluster of buildings his Urdnots had set up to be his camp, he was in a very foul humor indeed.

"Clanlord. You've arrived."

Wrex's humor fouled further. He gave an irritated snort as the Urdnot shaman came bustling out from one of the larger kivas, his hands dripping with some varren blood concoction no doubt at the heart of his latest ritual. The shaman had a snaggly grin on his face as he wiped his hands across his armored pants and approached, rumbling in greeting. Despite the fact that he was celibate, nobody in Urdnot had taken the news of the genophage cure half so well as the shaman, and the normally immovable old krogan had had a pleased waggle in his dewlap for days. As the clan's keeper of knowledge, the shaman was tasked with instructing the clan on all of the old, forgotten traditions they would need to reinstate. He took the task so seriously that he'd even refused Wrex's offer to take his name back and attempt to father splitplates of his own – the rituals were his children, and a great many of them had just come back to life.

"No trouble?" the shaman asked, unaware or uninterested in Wrex's mounting irritation.

Wrex gave another snort. "I'm still clan leader," he grunted, lumbering over to a mountain of supplies the Urdnot clanmembers had stockpiled. "Stop coddling me."

The shaman displayed his wrists in contrition. "I have not forgotten your position, Clanlord," he said. "I assumed you may have been forced to kill someone this morning."

Wrex shuffled over to a crate of salarian food one of his guards had brought him and rustled through its contents. He'd grown rather fond of salarian cuisine during his centuries as a mercenary, but it was hard not to look at the frogmen – and everything they offered – with a new distaste ever since what their dalatrass had tried to do. He sniffed at a packet of freeze-dried fruit and grimaced. "Not yet," he growled, tossing the fruit back. "Though I'm considering it."

The shaman ignored the threat. "We will need a pair of varren today, Clanlord. Healthy males. I need their bile."

Wrex sighed. Ginding wild varren would require some travel – most of the local packs had been killed and eaten already, whether by Kalros or by hungry krogan pilgrims. "Turu and Kog are heading out on another scouting trip to look for survivors in the lowlands," he said. "There might be some varren left there."

The shaman nodded his agreement. "So long as the varren they get are _healthy. _I will send a messenger. I will also request they send a party to the Keystone to fetch the contents of my reliquary there. Normally I would insist on doing it myself but I cannot be away."

Wrex grunted his agreement.

"Good." The shaman fell silent for a moment. "Then, of course, you have… _your _ritual to perform."

Wrex snorted. As if he'd forgotten. He'd been in a bad mood for days, ever since the Crush had decided.

"The culling is a very important ritual, Clanlord," the shaman said. "It will not be easy for you, but it must be done."

"It won't win me many allies," Wrex pointed out. "It sounds too much like Okeer."

"Okeer was once a great krogan," the shaman insisted. "But no, your followers will not celebrate you for what you do. But you must do it. You were their warlord. Even now, they follow you. You must give them the example, even if it is not pleasant to do. This is what we must return to if we are to survive, Clanlord. We _must._"

Wrex snorted.

"And you must do it before _Bakara_ changes her mind."

Wrex couldn't deny that thought was a unsettling one. By and large, Bakara had advocated returning to the old ways – the pre genophage ways – as much as possible. Every ritual, no matter how out of date, was to be studied and attempted if the krogan were to reconnect with what they once were. But the look on her face when one of the clan leaders – a great, hoary old beast from clan Shogo who could trace his ancestry back to Warlord Modo – had brought up this particular tradition at the last Crush had chilled Wrex to the bones. She'd ultimately been forced to relent, but afterwards she'd ended the Crush early and practically _thrown _the assembled clan leaders out of her temple.

Wrex had talked to her later and they'd agreed there was no recourse, but there was no telling, now that the day had come, if she would keep her word not to interfere. Bakara was a great krogan – and Wrex had little doubt she would do far more to save her people than he ever would – but she was young and rash. She hadn't had to deal with Uvenk or Guld or Ceddek or Baok. She did not know how much trouble the old traditionalists could cause.

And she had more than enough krogan at her disposal to cause her own trouble if she wanted to, no matter _what _the clanlords said.

"She's been quiet so far today," Wrex said. He was half surprised she hadn't hunt him down already. But then again, _he _had resigned to do what had to be done. He could hardly expect her to do any less.

"Then let us do this quickly and spare her what suffering we can."

Wrex nodded.

–

The shaman led him to one of the kivas and set a hand on the thick flap of ramus leather that had been draped over the entrance like a door. Wrex could smell the fire crackling within. "This task is yours, Clanlord Wrex," the shaman said, face dour. "Inside you will find freshly prepared alchite powder, the scent of clan Urdnot. It will mark those you deem strong enough to carry it as ours." The shaman fell silent.

Wrex hesitated. His hearts beat a nervous tattoo in his chest.

The shaman held aside the tent flap, and Wrex stepped inside.

–

The interior of the kiva was sweltering. A fire roared in a shallow pit in the center of the floor, wreathed in flat shards of obsidian that glinted and danced in the flames. Next to it, as promised, was a wide bowl of alchite powder and gray clay from the cliffs in the lowlands that filled the room with a powerful animal scent.

And in the far side of the room, in a pen recessed into the rocky soil into which the building had been carved, sat three dozen fat krogan splitplates, not yet weeks old but already a half meter tall and alert. The hatchlings had been fighting, their high, creaky growls carrying over the crackle of the fire, but they quieted as Wrex's shadow fell over them and stared up at him from their pen with gleaming eyes that seemed to fill up the sides of their heads.

Wrex stared.

"_The task is yours,_" the shaman had told him, once the decision had been made. _"Your time as warlord is done but you are still clan leader of Urdnot, and _you_ will decide who wears our scent._" Now the shaman's words seemed to echo in Wrex's earholes. _"On Tuchanka, death is a constant companion, and a thousand hatchlings must die for one to meet his end in the Asot-fights. A weak hatch, a malformed back, a dim eye, or a toothless mouth can only hurt his clan." _At Wrex's feet, the hatchlings' eyes flickered in the firelight, unafraid. "_The clan leader must cull them, before they can threaten their kin. They cannot compete and so they must die. They cannot endanger the clan, and so they must die at the clan's hands. At _your _hands. It is the only way._"

Wrex grimaced, quieting his pounding hearts. It was the only way. Urdnot clan was still his responsibility, at least until he and Uta decided what they wanted to do with their titles. He was clan leader, and that meant the grisly task fell to him.

He had to kill hatchlings. For the good of the clan.

He felt almost paralyzed in the hatchlings' presence as he took another lurching step towards the pen, staring down at the young krogan within. Thirty-one, he counted. He counted them again to be sure.

Wrex felt his breath catch. Thirty-one living splitplates. It was more hatchlings than he had ever seen in his life, and they were just from clan Urdnot. In a hundred other clans, a hundred other clan leaders were staring at their own crop. The first krogan children to be born free from the genophage in more than a millennium.

It boggled Wrex's mind. He had not seen a splitplate in person for decades, not since the last time he had visited one of the female camps. Even then, a whole female camp might be raising only two or three children between them – now he had _thirty-one _in this room alone. And more were on the way.

He dropped to a kneel next to the pit and could not help but wonder if any of the splitplates were his. Many of them had splashes of red across their heads even now, but that meant little. Some were probably Bakara's – but that didn't mean they were his either. He decided it did not matter.

Perhaps it was better, even, that he not know. It would make it easier to do what he had to do.

He reached down into the pit and pulled one hatchling squealing from the others it had been holding onto. The hatchling was five kilos, easily, and rasped and wailed as he lifted it into the air, cradling it in one clawed hand. It was strong – it stared him right in the eye, defiant as it chomped down on his thumb and raked its claws across his forearm – but Wrex could not help but hold it with utter delicacy. Wrex had been a successful bounty hunter. He'd earned tens of millions of credits in his long life, could have bought himself a ship and lived like a warlord for centuries. And yet never in his life had he held something that felt so valuable.

But of course, that was the old way of thinking. The genophage way of thinking. They weren't valuable anymore, not in the same way.

Wrex shook his head to clear it and turned to his work, carrying the child one-handed over to the fire. He held it up to his eye and turned it this way and that, determined to do his task without weakness. The shaman had drilled him for hours on what the old knowledge said about the culling rituals, about what signs meant a krogan hatchling was healthy and what signs meant he would just end up varren food before he was fused, and Wrex went through the checklist with care. He checked the hatchling's fingers and toes, the softness of its claws. He ran fingers down its back and sides, probed the muscles of the hips and shoulders. He felt at the hatchling's hump, all fat, pale and yellow as a yolk. He tested the hatchling's grip, the strength of its bite, the state of its teeth, the color of its tongue. He ran fingers down each reddish bump and nodule of what would become armor, felt the softness between the skull plates to ensure they were fusing together properly. He turned it this way and that, just centimeters from the fire, looking for any imperfection, no matter how small. He smelled it deeply, smelled its breath and its feet and its tail and its back. Last but not least he looked into its eyes, eyes of brilliant gold that shone like embers in the firelight.

The hatchling fought tooth and nail through every second of the inspection, kicking and biting and scratching and howling so loud Wrex's ears rang, and Wrex could not help but smile at its tenacity. He finished, and held his charge at arm's length, just staring at it.

It was perfect. He found himself rumbling, a pleased purr that kindled deep in his chest and seemed to shake the room around him.

"You will be a strong son of Urdnot," he promised, rumbling as he stooped to grab a pinch full of the alchite mixture at his feet. The gray powder had a powerful scent - its recipe and preparation were unique to clan Urdnot, known only by its shaman. Mixed with clay it made a pungent paint that was a warning to any krogan within miles that its wearer was of clan Urdnot. Holding the hatchling close, Wrex dabbed the musky powder over its left eye and traced a long line across its face, along the edge of where its crest would grow. "All who smell you will know you are ours. All who face you in battle will know you have _krannt _and kin that will fall upon them like death itself."

The hatchling whined and licked at the unfamiliar powder on its face as he put it back into the pen with the others. Wrex chuckled and tried to imagine what sort of krogan it would grow to be.

He grabbed another hatchling and moved on.

–

Twenty-eight hatchlings and twenty-eight alchite baptisms later Wrex found himself frowning. He was through almost all of them, and he had not culled a single one. He had tried – earnestly tried – to do his task, but every splitplate he'd checked had been perfection itself. Perfectly formed, perfectly alert, perfectly strong. Perfect little krogan. How could he cull any of them?

He grabbed another hatchling and could not help but wonder if he'd grown soft.

He had no delusions – he did not _want_ to kill any of them. He'd spent more than a thousand years knowing that splitplates were of tantamount importance. Each one was a treasure, to be protected from all harm – even from its parents – and kept behind armies of adults ready to kill and die for its survival. It was not easy to forget that.

But times were different now. They were back to the old ways, the way it had been before the genophage had destroyed his species. He had been clan leader in a time of great strife, but now different strifes would be upon them, and different rules had to be followed. Wrex couldn't help but remember Ganar Okeer's words when the great lieutenant of the Rebellions had returned from death pontificating about the ruination of the krogan, about how they were coddling their few children to the point that they risked wiping out the krogan way of life as surely as any genophage. The Offworlder had seemed crazy then, but now his words carried a new weight.

They could not coddle any longer. They could not protect their young like they had been. They could not breed like they had before that. How would they feed them all? The aliens' gratitude was keeping them fed for the moment, but Wrex knew all too well that would not last. The supplies would stop coming and Tuchanka would not be able to feed its new population. There would be starvation and violence. They'd be forced to take a new planet just to keep up.

And one planet would never be enough.

They could not let history repeat itself. Their population _had _to be controlled.

Wrex _had _to do this.

–

It was nighttime by the time Wrex had decided which hatchling was least fit to survive. The decision had not been easy – he'd checked and rechecked them all, and each time he thought he'd decided, he found himself second guessing himself, or third guessing himself.

But eventually he knew which he would choose. A female, one of the smaller hatchlings. Not so rambunctious as the others, more content to sit in his palm and let him inspect it.

It pained Wrex to admit it, but the little hen was not a fighter, not like her siblings and cousins. In a few months or years when the food ran out and the splitplates had to fight for every morsel, she would go hungry while the more aggressive children ate. She wasn't going to make it. She was healthy enough. She just wasn't… strong enough. From what the shaman told him, Wrex felt sure the ancient krogan would have dashed her skull open without a second's hesitation.

He was going on two hours of hesitation now.

The doomed hatchling sat in his palm over the fire, oblivious to her predicament as she reached out, trying to grab the front lip of Wrex's crest. She stared at him with dark eyes that shone like the obsidian at the fire's feet.

"I am sorry," Wrex rumbled, and he meant it.

The hatchling blinked at his words but gave no sign she comprehended. She finally gave up trying to climb on his head and turned to busy herself instead with a loose flap of shedding skin on Wrex's thumb. She cocked her head, blinking enormous eyes as she picked at the skin.

"You're curious," Wrex observed, watching the hatchling play. The little hen peeled the skin off and held it in the air, squeaking at the way it gleamed in the firelight.

Suddenly Wrex found himself remembering Mordin Solus, and the way the doctor managed to be so utterly fascinated by every inane detail of every inane conversation he ever had. The doctor had been curious. It was not, generally speaking, a krogan trait, but in the end, it might have saved the whole species. If Mordin had not been who he was the genophage might never have been cured.

Wrex stared at the other hatchlings, watching him from the pit, and could not help but see the faces of aliens. Aleena, who probably weighed less altogether than one of his shoulderpads but could kill mercs every bit as fast as he could. Garrus, who could see an enemy from three miles and kill it from two. Shepard, who attracted _krannts _like varren to a corpse. And others. Tali and Liara, Ashley and Kaidan. The human doctor, the broken pilot who'd killed Sovereign.

None of them would survive a fortnight on Tuchanka. Not even close. They'd be eaten, or they'd starve, or they'd die of exposure. Even Shepard would not triumph on Tuchanka, not for long. Not like a krogan.

And yet Wrex would be lying if he said he thought any of them were weak.

He looked at the hatchling again. "You remind me of someone I knew," he said.

The little hen dropped her piece of skin and looked at him, blinking.

"Salarian scientist. Barely a mouthful." He smirked to remember Mordin's obnoxiously frantic pace, his nigh-indecipherable babble of words. "Annoying."

The splitplates in the pit were staring at him, eyes wide as he held their companion over the fire in one great fist.

Wrex was quiet for a long moment. "Wanna hear about him?"

–

–

The great masses in the Temple of Corsutk'tk never truly quieted, but by the time the sun had set many of the krogan had spread to the camps that sprawled throughout the rest of the city and the throngs in the temple's inner sanctums were a little less dense.

Bakara knew she wasn't going to get a better opportunity and so, bidding goodbye to Uta under pretenses of a midnight walk, she made her way down the steps of her ziggurat, dismissing the silent guards that moved to escort her with a wave. Below her, the krogan campfires twinkled like a thousand stars under the moon of the great Apo bonfire. Bakara climbed to the far side of the ziggurat and crept down, trying to keep concealed within the shadows as much as she could.

It was to no avail. She had hardly reached the pyramid's base by the time she was surrounded. Even without her ceremonial robes, many among the slumbering recognized her instantly, and they swarmed to speak to her or touch her hand.

Bakara looked in their eyes and spoke tenderly to many of them.

Many of them were lost. Krogan who had given up all hope, who had given their species up for dead, only to have it handed back to them. Many of the older clan leaders had urged them to cast out the offworlders as clanless, even to kill them for daring to return after abandoning Tuchanka in its long time of need, but Bakara had been unyielding on the point. It had taken a great deal of persuading – and many of the traditionalist still rankled – but she had convinced the Crush that all wayward krogan were to be accepted.

That was to be the new way of things, and if they did not like it, they could be replaced.

The hope in the eyes of the krogan she passed made it worth all the fighting, but tonight she had other business to attend to. She excused herself from her disciples as gently as she could, promising to return the following day, and turned towards the Urdnot camp.

Hopefully there was still time.

Not for the first time, Bakara cursed herself for giving into the others on the culling issue. She understood that most of them, at least, had the krogans' best interest in mind. Overpopulation served none of them – not the krogan, nor their newly-restored alien allies. She had no intention of allowing her species to go down that path again. And so despite her misgivings she'd agreed.

But the thought of one of her hatchlings being culled had kept her awake for days, and now she could deny her feelings no longer. She could not allow Wrex to go through with it. Not with her offspring, or with anyone else's. The krogan had seen enough death. They would find another way to control themselves. They would find another way to have peace.

Bakara walked quickly, picking her way across the sleeping krogan masses on the outer temple grounds. She did not have time to lose. She had not known her clan leader for long – he'd abandoned his seat to his brother Wreav when she was just a hatchling, and had only returned to lead the clan three years ago – but she knew Wrex was a noble krogan. She had heard the stories. He had been trying to rescue the krogan from their self-destruction for centuries before she was born. He would not take killing hatchlings lightly. He would be taking his time.

But he would do what he believed was best for the krogan.

She just had to convince him what that was.

The Urdnot male clan's shaman caught her as she climbed the path up to the kivas that were the clan's main camp. He abandoned a pot he'd been stirring and rose to meet her, presenting his forearms in greeting. He smelled of blood and incense, so strongly that Bakara wrinkled her nose as he approached.

"Sota, sister," he said, inclining his head. "Greetings."

"Sota," she said. "Where is Clanlord Wrex?"

The shaman's brows rose in surprise. "Urdnot… Bak…?" He trailed off, dumbfounded for a moment before realization flickered across his expression and his scent went prickly. He stared at her with suspicion etched into the lines of his ancient face. "What are you doing here?"

Bakara ignored him. As popular as she had become with most krogan of late, many of the clan shamans had shown her nothing but contempt after she'd broken their taboos and started going by her old name again. They'd lectured her at some length about how a shaman had to abandon his or her identity, how she was disgracing them all. She had heard it all before. She had no time for it now. "Clanlord Wrex. Where is he?" she demanded, pushing past the shaman to peer inside the kiva behind him.

"N… no!" the shaman barked, scrambling after her. "You mustn't interrupt him. He is occupied."

"I need to speak with him."

"You know what he is doing," the shaman accused, planting himself in her path. "You do not want to see him now. Return to your temple. I will send him to you when he is done."

The shaman's words made all four of Bakara's stomachs jump, but she just shook her head. "No. I will see him. _Now._" She pushed past him again.

"But… but… _Bakara," _the shaman tried again, spitting her name like it pained him. "The culling… it is not a job for a mother. What if you should see your _own _hatchling culled?"

"Then I should see you and Wrex culled WITH IT!" she roared, so loud the shaman seemed to shrink next to her. "Now MOVE!" The shaman finally relented, stepping aside as Bakara worked her way to the last kiva. She could smell Wrex, now, and the smoke of a fire, and the musky tang of Urdnot's alchite. She lumbered towards the entrance, dread in her hearts.

"You will not want to look at the carnage," the shaman warned again.

She pulled aside the flap.

–

"'Normandy, come in Normandy. This is Shepard.'" Wrex's voice rumbled to fill the kiva as he held up a hand. "'We need reinforcements.'" Wrex's voice changed timber. "'We're on the way!'" he bellowed, holding his hand out flat. The dying fire cast a long, inky shadow across the wall behind him. "KSSSSHHHHRRRRRRRRKKKKKKKKKK". The shadow _Normandy _landed.

"'GROUND TEAM DEPLOYED!'" Wrex shouted, so loud his audience of splitplates, staring enrapt up at him from the floor, gave a titter of excitement. "'GETH UNITS, LEFT AND RIGHT. CONVERGING ON OUR POSITION.'" Shadow geth joined the fight, and the hatchling in Wrex's lap – the dark-eyed one Bakara had been calling Mordin – giggled creakily.

"'Save us, Wrex! We're too squishy to save the Skipper on our own!'"

Wrex's voice was back to normal. "'You got it, Williams. It's time to show you how a _real _warrior fights.'"

Wrex's shadow proceeded to smash all of his imaginary shadow-opponents into paste, amidst many a sound effect and shouted explosion.

–

Bakara and the shaman stood, mouths hanging open.

"I… I could be mistaken, of course," the shaman admitted, blinking.

Bakara laughed and let the tent flap fall. Relief washed over her like a tide. "I've changed my mind," she announced. "You may send Wrex to visit me when he is finished." She tossed the bewildered shaman a smug look. "Would not want to interfere with all the carnage."

She turned and headed for the temple.

–

* * *

**A/N: **This was written as a christmas gift for the gift exchange at the Mass Effect livejournal, for user rb_99, who prompted that they wanted something about Wrex and baby krogan.


	8. Chapter 8, Tali Gangsta Rap

**Tali Gangsta Rap - TZNarizzle**

* * *

I'm Tali'Zorah  
I was born on  
the bad side of tha Rayya  
where the sinks pile up high and the bodies pile up highah.  
My turn offs are sickness, and bosh'tets, robotics,  
my drone Chiktikka always aimin' for the optics  
Antibiotics – I'm poppin' 'em, got a shot gun – it's droppin' 'em.  
I blow off their faces and move on when I've forgotten 'em.  
That's often enough, but my suit don't come off easy,  
no breezes and sneezes in my helmet leave it greasy.  
Need the Windex, I'm cleanin'.  
Shine the visor 'till it's gleamin'.  
No streaks on the vision – keep it pretty, know my meanin'?  
I'm hermetic-ly sealed,  
rip my suit and I'd get keeled,  
but I say  
I'm renegade I speak the bottom of the wheel.  
Keep it real, and Keelah'selai?  
I'm thinkin' not!  
Keelah B*TCH mother f**ker you know that when I got  
my tech powers top my shields, I'm drainin' yours like a sieve.  
I'm a chef turnin' geth into geth prime rib  
delicious  
Feelin' vicious, not a little bit glib.  
You better clear ***ZAP*** b*tch, I'm like a f**kin' defib.

I'm Tali'Zorah, mothaf**ker, representin' the fleet.  
I'm the hippest hippiest quarian you evah gonna meet.  
But these hips ain't for show  
I got clips down below.  
Claymore strapped on each thigh whip 'em out and let fly.  
I can't sleep, it's too quiet, not enough ballers drivin' by it  
yeah the sweet lullaby of automatic fire's a diet  
like an angelic choir it calms my nerves it makes me tired  
it puts me to sleep like an Enkindler flyer.  
I'm the scourge of the geth,  
shocked the reapers to death,  
took the breath from every man those assholes Cerberus sent,  
Read my vent,  
Illusive Man can go ****** and he's ************************* his favorite hanar prostitute.

I'm Tali'Zorah, mothaf**ker, I've handled coloss – I  
Shot their flashlights in the face I'm the geth killin' boss – I'm  
Responsible for the armature's extinction and their loss  
from the third game 'sa shame but I made 'em all dross.  
But your face it makes me nauseous  
it makes me wanna toss up  
my dainty middle fingers  
but the thing is that I'm hindered,  
so instead I'll use my words  
'cuz it's hard to flip the bird  
it's a b*tch – it needs more digits, and I'm short by a third.

Your lyrics on the other hand they make me ashamed,  
more confusin' than my immune system changin' every game!  
You're just lame,  
a vorcha's ass, you look the same and smell worse too,  
you've got more therapy issues than the Normandy crew!  
You're a prick,  
you make me sick like an airborne infection,  
make me vomit in my helmet every day without exception.  
You're a bosh'tet to everyone in every direction  
you're an omini-tool and a slobbering fool you deserve all the hate that you get, son.

I'm Tali'Zorah motherf**ker, I'm a baller, a mauler  
tell me brother what's your favorite color, better than the others?  
RGB, pick a scene,  
it's the last you'll ever see.  
I'll spill your blood – is it red is it blue or is it green?  
I got a knife by my foot,  
show you my extended cut  
let you bleed out on the floor fo' you've a chance to rebut.  
I may be hidden from view from my back to my front but I can ask about the Qwib-Qwib all day if I want!

I'm Tali'Zorah, b*tch, you KNOW I'm adored!  
You can't afford to come on board an' face my fanboy horde!  
These guys are crazy,  
it's amazing,  
they all want in my pants  
and when you answer to 'em bosh'tet you ain't got a f**kin' chance.  
You'd best recant  
'cuz I can't  
know if my mancers gonna stop  
'fore they wreck up your face like a crappy Photoshop!

* * *

**A/N: **If you've any interest in hearing this rap as performed by a real good Tali impersonator and all done up with some music and such, check out koobismo dot com, for which I wrote this with the help of my friend the Illustrious Snail. I think you'll enjoy it.

Interstitium fans, I'm working on it. Still not dead.

And yes, I'm real behind answering all of my reviews. I'll get on it.


End file.
